


only.

by wolfgangshaw (likeswimmingg)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Post 5X13, broody shaw, machine root
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 11:17:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11919768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeswimmingg/pseuds/wolfgangshaw
Summary: Shaw is dealing with the after effects of Root's death and continuing the work that Team Machine had done. But a new number changes everything. Post 5x13.





	only.

**Author's Note:**

> i've never written a poi fic before, but this kind of stemmed from my take on where shaw is at after 5x13. i hope i do her and this story justice. 
> 
> comments/constructive criticism is always welcome.
> 
> follow me on twitter @bgltshaw

You roll uncomfortably between your sheets for the third time that morning. The sun is blinding at this particular hour, even though your black curtains are carefully clouding your windows just the way you like them.

But all the light in the world couldn’t drown your particular brand of dark out.  
  
You take a restless glance at your cut up knuckles, the only indication of the night before - but you've already willed the images of what had occurred away. None of it made a difference anyway.  
  
You roll over on the other side and fall back asleep until your alarm sounds.  
  
//  
  
Grief isn't something you're programmed to experience. You're not used to being able to pinpoint any emotion other than anger and annoyance, but there's no other way to describe what’s been going on in your chest.  
  
When you wake up bright and early to work the numbers and you remember.  
  
You always remember.  
  
You try your best to distinguish the reality of it all - escaping the clutches of Samaritan's acolytes and returning to the bustling cacophony of New York City. Returning to your team. Returning to _her_ .  
  
_Maybe it wasn't real after all_ , you convince yourself. Maybe they're testing out a lengthier simulation. Why else would you be able to feel a weight this immense and foreign?  
  
But there were no indicators anymore.  
  
Around the 7000th simulation, you started to notice the glitches. Simulation Root attempted to manipulate you toward the machine, even if you wanted to deny it and just bask in the moment for what it was: a reality in which you had everything your subconscious sought after.  
  
But there were no glitches this time, and now there was no Root. Samaritan's operatives made sure of that.  
  
You find yourself at the subway without any recollection of putting one foot in front of the other and making your way there. You find that you’ve been dissociating quite often lately, but you chalk it up to exhaustion more than anything else.  
  
Mostly you're just tired of missing something that you never had in the first place. You and Root couldn't have had a normal life and you were kidding yourself if you thought you could; even if it was for the briefest of moments. 

Some days you can’t help your mind from wandering to what could’ve been. You and Root working the numbers with the occasional help of Fusco and Bear. She, the worthy admin taking over the throne after Finch stepped down and you, the new analog interface. The two of you fucking in between gunfights and a moment never dull.

It wouldn’t have been perfect, but it would’ve worked for you. These fleeting thoughts almost made you grateful for the simulations.

Almost.  
  
You knew it had to be bad if you would rather be in a false sense of reality and consistent torture than be free. But as long as this guilt had both its hands around your throat, you'll never truly be able to breathe again.  
  
//  
  
Your number is gripping your arm a little too tightly for your liking as you guide him to safety. The USP compact resting in your other hand feels like a warm blanket to you though. It’s the only thing keeping your feet on the ground and your focus intact.

"Why are these guys after me?"  
  
You scoff as the soothing voice in your ear guides your way through a side alley. _In 100 feet turn left. There will be a car waiting for you._

"The 50k you transferred to an offshore account without remotely covering your tracks may have been the first indicator, Ahmed," you tell him without mincing your words. You never thought it was necessary to sugarcoat things - especially when people committed crimes and were dumb enough to leave a trail.  
  
Ahmed peels himself off of you in the middle of the alleyway and looks at you in disbelief. "Wait, what? I've been an accountant for 15 years, I'd never risk my job for some fast cash," he says matter of factly. “They pay me kindly.”  
  
You look in his eyes, at his posture. You note the desperation in his voice too, all signs pointing toward the number telling the truth. Your years dedicated to the Marines and the ISA may not have taught you this particular skill, but they certainly allowed you to master it.  
  
"Let's walk and talk, Ahmed," you urge and continue down the path the machine gave you earlier. Ahmed held onto you less invasively this time, but there was now blood soaking through his pants. "Did you piss anyone off at your office? Because I know a frame job when I see one."  
  
Ahmed shook his head _no_ and kept limping toward the prepaid Uber that was waiting for them.

You keep your eyes on the road behind you, making sure no one tailed you from Black Sail Enterprises, the company Ahmed works - well, probably _worked_ \- for. Security detail had clearly upped the ante, because the professionals who clipped Ahmed and gave a few good kicks to your ribs weren't messing around. Black Sail’s CEO must’ve hired them specifically to finish the job.  
  
Somebody wasn’t happy, enough so to frame Ahmed and take him out. None of it made sense, but you were thankful - it was the most action you’d seen in months.  
  
The car pulled around back to a motel room and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You haven't been able to go back to Finch’s only safe house left since the team had taken down Samaritan.  
  
"Pants off," you advised Ahmed and the look he gave you earned him a swift eye roll. "I need to look at your wound before it gets infected."  
  
_And that wouldn't be a help to either of us_ , you think to yourself.  
  
Ahmed did as he was told and you were relieved at what you found. "It's just a graze. Let me see if there's a first aid kit in the bathroom."  
  
Before you could pull away, Ahmed grabbed your arm lightly. "I don't know who you are but," he began, his eyes shining, "thank you for saving my life."  
  
You nod and continue your search for anything you could find in the medicine chest. You find what you’re looking for rather quickly - it seems the machine chose this particular motel for its abundance of suture kits.  
  
"If you didn't wire that money into your account, we need to trace where it came from,” you tell the number as you prepare to stitch up his bullet wound.

You pour some alcohol that you found in the mini fridge over the gash and Ahmed winces in pain. You remember a different time, stitching up a different wound.

_Keep ‘em dry. Change the dressings every two hours._

_I love it when you play doctor._

“How would we do that?” Ahmed breaks you out of your reverie.

“I know a guy,” you say, finishing up final touches and dressing the wound. You pull the prepaid phone out of your jacket and dial a number. “It’s me. Remember that favor you owe? It’s time to pay up.”

//

Leon enters the diner inconspicuously, looking over his shoulder before making his way to your booth. He pulled his hoodie closer to him before sliding opposite you. 

“Are you sure it’s safe to meet so publicly like this?”

You’d never seen him so paranoid - danger followed Leon closely, but maybe all of the scheming had finally caught up with him.

“Times are different now, Leon,” you whisper in between bites of your overly saturated pancakes. “Besides, we’re at a low scale diner in Park Slope. We’re fine.”

Leon looked around the establishment. “Where’s the guy we’re helping? Shouldn’t he be here?”

“That doesn’t concern you,” you scowl. “Do you have what we discussed?”

“Of course,” he confirms incredulously, and pulls out a laptop from his briefcase. He types noisily at the device and turns the screen toward you. “Do you see what I’m seeing?”

You put your fork down and focus your gaze at the screen. Eventually you scrunch your face in confusion. “I don’t see anything.”

“Exactly.” Leon turns the computer back facing him and begins typing again. “There’s nothing to trace, there’s nowhere to even-”

Leon closes the computer suddenly and rests his arms on top of it, pondering something.

“What is it, Tao?” You ask, growing more and more impatient with Leon’s non answers. Fusco had told you he was the best accountant turned money launderer there was, despite your first impression of him all those years ago.

“I’ve seen this pattern before, with tall, dark and broody,” Leon began. You couldn’t be sure, but you assumed he meant Reese. “Before you came into play, Finch was kidnapped by some hacker. She paid a man for services with his own money and made herself virtually untraceable. The person framing Ahmed, it must be her too. It’s the same handiwork, Shaw.”

Leon was confident about his discovery. It made you want to reach across the table and strangle him with the strings of his own hoodie. Because Root wasn’t just “some hacker.” She was so much more than that, more than any words you could ever find in your vocabulary.

The complications of protecting Ahmed and clearing his name distracted you for a little while, but you should’ve known this moment would come. That reminder of what you lost, and what you’ll never get back. 

“There’s a problem with that, Leon,” you say tight lipped and gluterall. “Root is dead.”


End file.
